


Various Short Stories

by Usedtobehmc



Series: Life After the War [4]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Bondage, M/M, Needles, Recreational Drug Use, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:38:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Usedtobehmc/pseuds/Usedtobehmc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are all small snippets of fic that I imagine take place in the Life After the War universe.  All based on little ideas or snippets of conversation that enters my head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sniper and Spy Get Heinously Drunk

Consciousness does not return as a friend.

Good God, how did they get back to the hotel last night?  Sniper honestly can’t remember, but here they are in their room in Vienna.  Miraculous.  

He’s in the bathtub.  He doesn’t remember how they made it there, let alone how he ended up in the tub, fully clothed.    

A quick glance at the toilet gives him his answer.  Apparently he spent some time praying to the porcelain gods and never made it to bed.  

Jesus fuck, the pounding in his head was threatening him with a repeat performance.  Why did he drink that much?  Vodka is not his friend, and he was not 20 goddamn years old anymore.  

He doesn’t want to leave the tub.  He wants to fill it with water and just soak.  Clothes be damned.  He can get new clothes.  Ones that don’t reek.  

"René," he croaks, embarrassed at exactly how trashed and pathetic his voice sounds.  He doesn’t actually know if Spy will answer; if the man is in any sort of similar condition he could very well still be unconscious.  

To his shock, Spy actually pokes his head in.  The man has a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and dark sunglasses on his face.  He looks  _fucking_ miserable.  

“ _Quoi_?”  He spits, and Sniper can tell he’s pissed.  French means pissed.

"Th’ hell did we do last night?"  He grumbles, not bothering to sit up.  His legs are sprawled up on the tub edges and he knows he looks ridiculous.  

"Nous avons consommé 6 litres de vodka. Ne me parlez pas. C’est de votre faute."  He jabs a finger at Sniper and moves to sit on the floor, leaning his head against the cool tile of the bathroom.

"What are you mad at me for?"

Spy grumbles and makes a dismissive gesture.  ”You were there, you were involved.  This is somehow your fault.  But my head is cracked open and I vomited my kidneys up this morning, so I can’t decide exactly how.”

"Be a love and get me a cool towel."  Sniper whines, beginning to see the humor in two men in their 40’s nursing hangovers like teenagers.  

"Be a love and fuck yourself."  Spy pulls a cigarette out and lights it.  

"Oy, get that out of here, you’ll make me chunder again."  The smell hits his nose and he realizes it’s not tobacco.  "Give it here."   He holds a hand out blindly and Spy hands it to him after two lazy pulls.  

It helps, but only a little.  

"Hell of a way to start our honeymoon."  Sniper murmurs.


	2. Headcanon: Sniper is a bit of a goofball

To anyone on the outside, Sniper is all business; taciturn and grumpy.  With a long face and a permanent grimace, he’s the picture of “Serious Assassin.”  Concerned only with contract killing and where his next paycheck is coming from.  

But behind closed doors, or with the one person he calls his partner, Sniper is a goof who likes to pinch sides and smack bums.  He also likes to whistle and take the neighbor's dogs out for ridiculous games of fetch that often include rough-housing in the grass.  

Spy often finds himself the victim of rugby-tackles to the mattress or couch.  He sputters indignantly, but the ensuing wrestling match is always amazingly fun.

Sniper cheats by tickling and his maniacal grin is contagious.

He has an amazing laugh.


	3. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one said starting your life over would be easy.

Sniper and Spy once had a huge fight during their post-war, figuring-out-how-to-live-together chapter of life.  

In addition to sharing space and getting used to all the little nuances of the other, they are both trying to deal with major life changes.  Spy has just retired from International Espionage and is going through a major what-do-I-do-now crisis.  Sniper is extremely homesick and bitter that in order to live with the man he loves, he had to leave his home for fear of prosecution.  The culture shock is making him feel unwelcome, small and unappreciated.  It all culminates in a knock-down, drag-out fight started when one of them (they can’t remember who) made a snide comment about the state of the apartment.  

Spy spits out a derogatory-sounding comment in French in the middle of the fight.

"Speak English," screams Sniper.

"Learn FRENCH," Spy snaps right back.  "You only  _live_  here now, you think perhaps you should start picking up the official language of the country you live in??”

"It wasn’t my decision to live here, it was yours!"

"Yes, because if we’d stayed in the BUSH, we would have been arrested and ironically enough, put in prison where we’d be raped by large men with terrible mustaches.  Does that sound better to you, you stupid lunatic?"

Sniper’s eyes widen and he seems to go cold.  ”Don’t call me stupid, and don’t call me a lunatic, you fancy French  _faggot_.”

Spy is silent.  For a moment they just stare at each other.  During the war, they may have come to blows over something like this.  But this is the real world, and they’re no longer at war.  Or so they thought.

Spy spins on his heel, grabs his overcoat and heads for the door.  ”Je vais sortir.    _Look it up_.”

The door slams and Sniper flips the dinner table with a roar, watching everything that was on it ricochet off the wall.  
  
****

It’s late when Spy returns and he’s stone sober, much to Sniper’s surprise.  Sniper had long ago gotten in bed, but hadn’t slept a wink.

Spy disrobes and tucks himself up behind Sniper, sneaking an arm around his waist and under his shirt.  

"I’m sorry I called you stupid.  And you are not a lunatic."  Spy starts, his lips brushing across Sniper’s neck as he speaks.

"I’m sorry I called you that word.  I know you don’t like it.  Me dad speakin’ through me, that is.  Feel terrible."

Apologizing to each other is not something they do often.  Only when it really matters.  

Spy pulls him closer.  ”I know things here are different.  I will help you learn French if you like.”

"Did look up one thing while you were out."  Sniper turns over and Spy keeps his firm hold on the man.  "Dunno if I’m sayin’ it right but… Juh Tem."

Spy gasps out a laugh.  ”Je t’aime trop.”


	4. The Rescue

 

 

The sound of gunshots and general panic woke Sniper from his uneasy and restless sleep on the floor.  

He'd spent the past 6 days in an underground room, being systematically tortured and interrogated for his employer's information in some sweltering factory basement in Madrid.  He'd taken a contract for the life of a mob head and it had gone sharply South.  He didn't remember getting knocked out, but the next thing he knew, he was waking up on a cement floor with his hands bound behind him.  

Amateurs.  They'd stuck mostly to fists, thinking they could beat the intel out of him.  He kept expecting to have his fingernails pulled out, maybe a tooth.  Maybe they'd water-board him; the standard torture fare.  But it never happened.  Sniper suspected they were all relatively young, maybe they didn't have the balls for knives and pliers and the sicker shit.  Probably young men snatched out of their mother's homes with the promise of the glamorous gangster lifestyle.  It would take at least 15 years for them to realize that the glamorous gangster lifestyle was reserved only for the select few at the top, and by then their lives would be too consumed by crime to ever escape or redeem themselves.  Oldest story in the book.

Fists Sniper could handle.  It was the slow starvation that was really starting to irk him.  They'd given him water and some really awful-tasting stale bread for the first few days.  But it was clear they expected him to waste away and expire down here no matter what information he gave them.  The thought that he'd die a dried up, smelly husk was infinitely depressing.  

He thought of Spy; his René.  He closed his eyes and pictured the man's face as clearly as he could.  Strong chin, blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, salt and pepper hair, tall but not as tall as Sniper, broad shoulders, trim waist, tapered fingers.  His cologne.  His voice when he spoke French.  

Enough.  Too sad to think about.  He was too dehydrated to cry anyway.  He never should have taken this job.  He should have retired like Spy had been smart enough to do.  He was too old for this; assassination was a young man's game.  God, what he would have given to take it all back.  

There was blood everywhere: dried between his teeth, caked and matted in his hair, crusty in his chest hair and wedged beneath his fingernails.  He smelled terrible even to his own nose, a week without a shower on top of being kept in this furnace of a holding cell, never mind being covered in his own blood, sweat and piss.  

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the fog that made his eyes heavy and his brain sluggish.  

The sounds of mayhem grew louder from behind the locked door of his prison.  He recognized the voices of some of his captors, the scream from someone he didn't recognize, the gurgling death rattle of the bloke they'd left outside to guard him.

Then silence.  

Three gunshots burst through the door around the lock and it was kicked open by some invisible force.  No… not quite invisible… there was a shimmer of electricity, a tendril of smoke that turned into a hundred and like a vengeful God he appeared: bathed in blue smoke and gold light.  Holding a knife that dripped with other men's blood in one hand and a smoking pistol in the other.  

" _Lawrence_ ,"  Spy hissed, the name escaping his lungs as if he'd been punched in the chest.  He lunged forward and fell to his knees, scooping Sniper into his arms as if he were a child.  Sniper felt those strong hands running over his face, the back of his head, his back, arms and chest searching for wounds.  Sniper had already taken stock of his own injuries: a concussion, two swollen black eyes, a busted lip, a broken rib or two, a few more cracked, more bruises than could be counted because they all ran together by now, scratches from rings and fingernails when they hit him.  The blood was from his busted nose and also from the head wound he'd suffered when they'd initially knocked him out.  

Despite the pain and the bone-deep ache that permeated his body… despite the blood loss and starvation and sleep deprivation, and even despite the fact that he knew it didn't matter, not after everything that had happened…  Sniper still felt the need to apologize to Spy for his appearance. 

"M'sorry.  Sorry… you have to see… see me like this…"  Sniper spoke for the first time in six days, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.  

Spy cradled Sniper's head and leaned in close, kissing those chapped, busted lips.  " _Au contraire_.  You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."  

 

 

 


	5. Headcanon: Sniper Loves to Swim

Spy took the final drag off his cigarette and stubbed it carefully on the rock he was sitting on.  Balancing his chin in his hand, he wondered exactly how long Sniper could keep this up.

 

The marksman had brought Spy to this place with the idea that they could both swim and relax.  It was a pristine lake about three hours away from their home, tucked away in the woods where tourists and even most locals would never stumble upon it.  Sniper had discovered it while hunting rabbits and had kept it under his hat until Summer, when the heat and oppressive density of the city became too much to bear.  He had intended for both of them to swim.  But unbeknownst to him, Spy much preferred to smoke and read a book while soaking up the sun.  

Spy had been reading for a solid hour when he realized that Sniper had been continually swimming for the same amount of time.  No wonder he was so thin, if he made a habit out of swimming this much.

After placing his cigarette butt in the picnic basket next to him (because Sniper would skewer him if he left it in the woods) he called out to Sniper, trying to get his attention over the sound of splashing water.

Sniper finally heard him and swam over, slicking his hair back as he pulled himself onto the sun-warmed rock next to Spy.  “Sure you don’t want a dip?”  

At least he had the decency to sound winded.  Spy didn’t think he could swim for more than 10 minutes straight without huffing and puffing for his life.  

The smoking probably didn’t help.  But oh well.

"I’m fine with my book."  He couldn’t resist reaching out and pulling Sniper in for a kiss.  The hunter was clearly in his element out in nature, and it made him irresistible.  When they parted, Sniper hummed with appreciation and put his sunglasses on, leaning back to air dry lying flat on the rock.  

"I didn’t know you had such an affinity for swimming."  Spy smirked, running his hand idly through Sniper’s chest hair.  

"Puts me at peace."  Sniper shrugged, closing his eyes agains the harsh glare of the sun through the trees.  "Life began in the water you know."  He arched his back a bit, relishing in the feel of Spy’s nails running across his chest.  "We’re ninety percent water, we need it to live, tell me a hot shower isn’t heaven on Earth."

Spy chuckled.  He was far guiltier of long, wasteful showers than Sniper.  “You are quite an eel.”

"Eel?  Usually people say ‘fish.’"

Spy tsk’d.  “You are far too skinny for ‘fish.’  You are an eel.  Lamprey, perhaps with your sharp teeth.”

"A lamprey, eh?"  Sniper flicked his glasses to the side and stood suddenly, yanking Spy up with a hard tug to his wrist.  

Oh no.  ”Don’t do it!   _Me lâcher!  Connard_!”  

Sniper cackled as he wrapped Spy tight in his arms and fell backwards into the lake, submerging them both with a tremendous splash.

"Fils de pute!"  Spy sputtered as he came back up.  Sniper emerged next, coughing up a bit of water from laughing too hard.  "Thank God I was not wearing my Rolex.  I’d have to skin you alive."  Spy smacked water at Sniper, pouting.  

"You sunbathe with your watch on?  Anyway, I checked!"  Ignoring Spy’s sour face, Sniper leaned gently backwards until he was floating on his back.  "Swim with me, water’s lovely."

"It is quite warm."  Spy begrudgingly agreed, walking slowly over to where Sniper floated.  

Sniper sensed him approaching and righted himself, sinking into a comfortable embrace with the Frenchman.  “See now, isn’t this nice?”  In their near-weightless state, Spy wrapped his legs around Sniper’s waist and held on tight.

"Wonderful."  He murmured, listening to the sounds of the water.


	6. Bitten

Spy hated camping.

They were never camping again.  

To borrow a phrase from Scout, “Fuck  _this_.”

To be perfectly clear, this was a conclusion he had only reached in the past 10 seconds.  11 seconds ago, he didn’t actually mind camping that much.  Especially when it was out of Sniper’s camper van, which had a radio and a roof and an actual bed (be it thin and a bit lumpy).  He actually enjoyed the peace and quiet of being miles and miles from civilization, the privacy you could only have when well and truly secluded.  He and Sniper were men who enjoyed privacy and quiet; things that were hard to attain for two men who had opted to live in one of the busiest tourist trap metropolis’ in the civilized world.  So these annual trips into the bush for a month of ‘quiet time’ were much enjoyed by both of them.

Until 10 seconds ago, that is. 

 

Spy had been reading one of his favorite books and drinking a martini out of a thermos(which was tantamount to barbarism, but Sniper had no martini glasses in the van and they’d both forgotten to pack them).  The sun warmed his bare shoulders and the pleasant breeze cooled them.  He sat in his undershirt and a pair of comfortable cotton slacks while he waited for Sniper to return with their dinner.  This was their usual routine, Sniper would go out hunting and Spy would stay behind and wait.  Spy was a better cook than he was a hunter anyway, and he had no affection for crawling around in the dirt waiting for rabbits to scurry past.  Sniper thrived on that sort of thing and was happy to do it but if it was up to him, they would just be thrust over a fire and eaten off a stick.  Spy insisted on actual meals, complete with utensils; it kept him sane.  If he was forced to bathe in a river, he would at least eat like a civilized human.  

The sounds of branches breaking and a person stumbling pulled him away from his peace and his heart immediately dropped when he saw Sniper staggering towards the camper van, looking for all the world like he’d been run over by a tank.  His hair was a mess, he was deathly pale and there was no sign of his bow or any of the arrows he’d taken with him.  

"Mon Dieu, what happened?"  Spy shouted, flinging his drink and book aside and sprinting to Sniper, immediately pulling the hunter’s arm around his shoulder to support him.  

Sniper flinched and almost folded in half, “GAHhngn…”  He grunted, limping heavily.  He latched onto Spy and kept moving as fast as he was able but his gait was still reduced to painful hobbling.  “Brown Snake… bit me.  Just a tiny thing, a baby… but… fuck me, it  _hurts_.  My head’s poundin’.”  His breathing sounded labored and pained; he gulped down air as if was was difficult to remember to do it at all.

Spy’s eyes widened and he glanced down, trying to catch a glimpse of the wound, but it was obscured by Sniper’s pants, though a blood-stain did indicated where it happened.  The back of his left calf and it was already swollen, significantly bigger than his right one.  “What do we do?  We must get the poison out…” Spy felt his heart-rate triple and tried not to panic.  His only experience with poison was what he used to assassinate targets with, this was outside his realm of experience.  

Sniper’s legs gave out before they could make it to the camper and he slid slowly and painfully to the ground, groaning all the way.  “We, we need the anti-venom…”

"Anti-venom?"  Spy took Sniper’s face in his hands, trying to get some eye contact out of the man.  Already the bushman’s speech was slurring from pain and Spy feared soon he’d pass out.  "Should I not remove the poison?  I’ve read that you make a cut and suck it out…"

"Nah,"  Sniper waved his hand and made a vague gesture.  "Myth.  ‘Sides, the venom’s already in there, it’s not coming out.  Nnngh, fuck, FUCK my head…  I can’t…"  He kept alternately trying to curl up and straighten back out, he had sweat right through his shirt and his hands were shaking now.  "Ven.. Anti-venom.  Get the anti-venom."

"Oui, oui, where is it?"  Spy charged through the door of the camper van before he even knew where he was looking.  He heard Sniper’s voice, growing weaker, call out.  "The cooler, there’s… there’s some in there.  Saline in there as well.  Mix ‘em."

Spy almost screamed; that sounded far more complicated than simply retrieving something, but he grabbed the small cooler with both hands and collapsed outside with it, right next to where Sniper was writhing on the ground.  Tossing the lid aside, he was confronted with not one vial, but many.  “Which one??”  

"Brown Snake…"  Sniper murmured, trying to roll on his side to look for the vial himself. 

"Yes, but what is it called?"  Spy grabbed the saline solution.

"It’s *called* a bloody  _Brown Snake_!”  Sniper spat, finding one last spurt of energy to roll on his side and locate the correct vial.  “This one, ya fool…”  

Sure enough, a small blue vial with the words “Brown Snake” scrawled on it was thrust into his hand.  Spy was too afraid for Sniper’s life to come back with a snide comment; he quickly combined the saline solution with the anti-venom and connected a needle to the tube hanging off the end.  At least this was something he knew how to do.  Basic first aid is absolutely necessary, but knowing how to hook up an IV bag was knowledge no one tells you you’ll need before you begin your career as a Spy.  Sure enough, he’d needed to know how to do it at least 8 times in his life.  He was eternally grateful he’d taken the time to learn.  

Shoving Sniper’s sleeve up and out of the way, he was able to easily locate a vein and insert the needle.  Holding the small saline bag up, he breathed a quick sigh of relief when it began to very slowly drain into Sniper’s bloodstream.  

Sniper had all but passed out; his eyelids fluttered and his hands twitched, but his breathing had become steady again rather than panicked.  That was good, at least.

Spy kept the bag elevated in one hand and used the other to lightly tap Sniper’s face.  “Mon cher, réveillez.  Wake up, come back.”

Bleary eyes met his, a hint of recognition passing over the injured man’s features.  

"Can you stand?  We must get you to a hospital."

Sniper made a vague motion with his head, perhaps he agreed with Spy’s assessment of the situation but was unable to do anything about it.  

Spy cursed a blue streak.  Holding the saline bag gently in his teeth, he took on the near-impossible task of hefting Sniper up and dragging him into the camper van without dislodging the IV.  Although Spy was in very good shape and Sniper wasn’t  _that_  much taller than him, thank-you very much, the man was still 80 percent legs and manipulating a body like that with absolutely no help was infuriating at the very least.

After much cursing and sweating, Spy was able to deposit Sniper’s mostly unconscious, gangly body onto the cot in the camper van.  He stuck the small saline bag on a nearby coat hook and made sure it was still draining before seeking out the keys from the glove compartment.  

"Oh merde…." Spy groaned.  He was going to have to  _drive_  this thing. 

 

**********


	7. Super Short Porn

The stocks are horizontal and, at the height they are chained to the ceiling, make even a tall man like Sniper stand up straight to avoid constriction of his airway.  His hands are locked in firmly as well on either side of his head, and they keep him from squirming too much.

Or more importantly, touching himself.

The simple apparatus is quite strong, and he uses it to support his body weight as Spy fucks into him fast and harsh.


	8. Headcanon: Spy doesn't get sick often

Spy doesn’t get sick often.  He was once heard boasting about having an immune system like a steel wall, which Sniper thinks is probably true.  

But he did get sick one spring, when the weather was changing and it seemed like every human in Paris was passing around the flu, from their neighbors to the local politicians.  

And it hit Spy hard.  Some special blend of mutated flu viruses had found a chink in his armor and attacked.  It wiped him of all energy and flattened him with a rattling, wet chest cough that made him cringe in pain after every fit.  

When Sniper returned from a job and found Spy in such a sorry state, he shook his head and corralled him back to the bedroom, forcing him into warm pajamas and under the covers.  

After leaving firm orders to stay put, Sniper retrieved an extra quilt from the closet and draped it over his sickly partner.  He left again and returned thirty minutes later with a bowl of chicken broth with crackers on the side and a glass of lemonade on a breakfast tray.

"My stomach is fine," Spy huffed, resenting the pampering only a little bit.

"Shush, it’s good for you.  Eat and be quiet."  Sniper shed his jacket and shirt, and ducked into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Spy rolled his eyes and did as he was told, humming in appreciation when Sniper emerged from a steamy bathroom 10 minutes later, damp and nude.  ”How long you been sick?”  He asked, towel drying the excess water from his hair.  

"Pft.  6 days.  This miserable cough."  He waved a hand dismissively and returned to his broth.  

Sniper put an Edith Piaf record on and dimmed their lights.  Spy smiled and let the beautiful music wash over him for a moment until Sniper spoke.  ”Yeah, bet you’ve been runnin’ around at all hours and not taking it easy on yourself, am I right?”

Spy scoffed and made a face.  ”When did you become so nurturing?  I did not expect this mother-hen treatment.”  
  
"What did you think I would do, take you out behind a tree and shoot you?"  

"Wouldn’t be the first time," Spy teased, giving an innocent smirk in response to Sniper’s dirty look.  

"You know as well as I do that was for your own good.  I know I preferred a shot in the head to bleeding out for an hour back in those days."

"Oui, oui, oui."  Spy waved his hand and proclaimed the conversation over.  He coughed violently into his hand for a full 15 seconds before putting his broth aside and settling back into the pillows.  "I believe I shall sleep, since you insist I rest."

Sniper nodded, dressed again in comfortable jeans and a simple button-up shirt.  ”I’ve got to clean my guns and put everything away.  Shout if you need anything.”  

Spy made a special effort not to roll his eyes when Sniper kissed him on the forehead and tucked him in.  


	9. Sniper Has a lot of Scars

"And this one?"  Spy asked again, tracing a finger over a scar he’d never laid eyes on before on Sniper’s ribs.  

Sniper tilted his hat down over his eyes and put his arms behind his head, enjoying the feeling of being touched.  ”Bar fight.”  
  
This intrigued Spy, and he traced the scar more carefully, taking note of how the tissue was raised and slightly pinker than the rest of the assassin’s skin.  How there was a freckle just under it, how it rested perfectly between two ribs and how it stretched as Sniper’s arms settled above his head.  ”Someone stabbed you?”

"Yeah," Sniper smiled darkly.  "Can’t rightly recall how it started… probably some bloke drank too much and didn’t like the looks of me.  ’Fore I knew it, it was ‘bloody queer’ this and ‘skinny shit’ that.  I was all set to leave, but he threw a punch, so that was that."

Spy ran his palm across Sniper’s stomach and up his chest.

"So we’re scrappin’, I’m holdin’ me own, but then he pulls a knife and gets me right between the ribs.  First time I ever been stabbed.  Blood everywhere.  And I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I’m scared.  But I’m also really bloody pissed off.  So I take my thumbs, and give him the ol’ gouge."  Sniper mimicked the move, a flick of his wrists simulating the instant blinding of his attacker.  

Spy chuckled.  ”A good punishment.”  Spy’s roaming hands became a bit more insistent, and one glanced over the front of his boxer shorts.  

Sniper let out a low laugh, “Is my story about maiming the bloke who stabbed me turning you on?”  

Spy smirked and looked away, feigning innocence.  ”I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  And to prove it, he threw a leg over Sniper’s hips and straddled him.  ”What about this one?”  He whispered, and traced a long, thin scar that ran from Sniper’s navel to his armpit. 

The bushman grinned, voice low as he spoke.  ”Wildcat.  Stitched myself up after I took ‘im down.”  Sniper’s large hands settled on Spy’s hips, thumbs idly stroking the bare skin they found.  

"Ooooh, mon grand, fort chasseur," Spy purred, grinding his hips and leaning forward to capture Sniper’s mouth in a kiss.


End file.
